


Piece of Mind

by orphan_account



Category: Original Work
Genre: Afterlife, Gen, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Original Character(s), Original Universe, Serial Killers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-25
Updated: 2016-07-25
Packaged: 2018-07-26 18:36:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7585501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>College student Richard Paowler experiences some very strange events, meets a very strange man, and becomes trapped in a cycle of inescapable immorality and violence, rediscovering his views in the process. Inescapable, even after death.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Piece of Mind

**Author's Note:**

> Out of Lurkerland at last.  
> Completely original characters, original universe.  
> Judging appreciated.

The gibbous moon hung over the South like a giant lantern, emitting its eerie light; a weak reflection of her brighter sister's radiance. Did the moon ever get jealous? Would it eventually seek vengeance against the better sibling, causing a war of celestial proportions? 

Of all the residents of New Orleans, only one particular man was looking up at the night sky and thinking strange thoughts such as those. His blank brown eyes stared upward, standing motionlessly on the balcony outside of his small two-room apartment. The stars were partly faded by the still bright artificial lights of the city's night activity, but Orion was still visible. The belt, the bow, was determinedly unafraid.  
They shouldn't be afraid, Matthew thought. But they should still burn. 

Just kidding.

He chuckled to himself, leaning farther over the balcony rail. He was on the fifth floor, which was the highest one. If he fell, or jumped, off, hid brains would certainly splatter all across the distant sidewalk below. Maybe he would hit a streetlight instead, add to the quaint decor. It would be beautiful. Matthew abruptly pushed himself away from the rail, sliding open the plastic door. Dying of a fall wasn't fun enough. It would be over far too quickly. 

The apartment was extremely cluttered, books, boxes, and various other junk spread out across the floor. His eyes settled on the start of an essay he was supposed to be writing for Literature. It was lying forlornly on the arm of the tiny couch, almost completely blank instead of the required seven pages. When was it due again? Ah, yes, the day after tomorrow. Tuesday, 12:00. He picked up one of the various mechanical pencils cast about on the floor and set it to the paper. 

Today was Sunday. That brought back memories. 18 years of going to whatever religious services his mother had put her faith in at the time. Her, teaching him everything about morals and doing good things in life. That wasn't why he killed her, though. Matthew thought that the religions were quite interesting. Of course, he didn't know exactly why he killed her, either. Probably simply because she was there. That was when Matthew had truly realized how little most of the police truly saw. They just find a bloody knife with his father's fingerprints on it and immediately arrest him. That was incriminating evidence, but the way some of the officers went about it with an assurance they were right cemented his confidence. His father had committed suicide after a little talking-to. Piece of cake. 

Matthew recalled pondering how to kill the people around him since he was around seven years old. He would have done it a few years later, too, if it wasn't for the fact that all of his income came from them. Getting a job that early would require too much effort. It was pretty agonizing to wait until he was 18, but he could take it. Thanks to that, he did find the distraction of education, graduating high school at 16. Perfect situation that his parents would perish in unfortunate circumstances his sophomore year of college and that their money was just enough to pay for the next two years along with living fees. 

Matthew did get a job, delivering pizza of all things. Only for his first semesters, every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Everyone recommended him as being “good with people.” Yes, good with people. That was only because he paid attention to the cues in people's stance and countenance, channeling the conversation to fit that. It usually turned out to be quite advantageous later on to have an idea of what people were thinking. Which is why he hated speaking through electronic means. There was only so much you could tell from a voice. 

Matthew lifted his pencil from the paper, absentmindedly tapping against the large block of text that had appeared since the last time he looked at it. Five pages done. He stretched back against the couch's arm, casting a glance across the room to the old-fashioned clock above the door out of the apartment. 12:36 PM. He could finish the last two pages and type them tomorrow after class. 

Matthew lifted himself off of the fraying couch and crossed the few feet into the tiny bedroom, too small to hold anything but the bed and some more clutter. Flopping down on the mattress, his eyes caught on the calendar tacked to the wall on his side. A few years ago, he never would have kept a calendar, especially not a physical one. But he needed to keep track of the weeks, and the tangibility of the thick paper always caught his attention, reminding him of how many days there were before he could finally do what he had been waiting for the entire month. 

Currently there were two weeks, fourteen days, until the time was up. Matthew almost felt a little bit of relief that it was so close. That was interesting. It was rare for him to ever come close to feeling something. He must have subconsciously boosted the itch in his fingers by all of those stray thoughts about his dead parents. Well, no matter. He could always do it sooner if he wanted to. Matthew felt sleep overtaking him in no time. There was no need to set an alarm. His internal clock would be enough.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
Richard skidded through the halls of Woodlake Louisiana University, clutching his bag in one had as he ran. Why did the campus have to be so huge? It took him nearly 10 minutes just to get here from the parking lot. And oversleeping on a day with Literature class of all days! One of the only classes that was actually worth it, in his opinion. Maybe he was prejudiced because he was majoring in the subject, but the other students obviously didn't appreciate what they were experiencing. 

Richard stood with his hand on the classroom, taking a moment to regain his breath. He glanced at his cheap wristwatch and sighed in relief. 5 minutes early. Guess staying in shape did have its merits after all. 

He pushed open the door and strode confidently in, going to his usual seat in the back. Not many people sat in the back row, since this was the advanced class, and no one shied away from questions. In his class of around 20, really only him, this hipster chick with green hair and that quiet, smart blonde kid. What was his name again? Matt, or something. 

Mrs. Darven strode in, 12:00 on the dot, punctual as usual. Her thick three-inch heels clicked on the linoleum floor as she made her way to her desk, confident as always. Most students were at least a little bit intimidated by her, the stern look on the middle-aged woman's sharp, slightly pinched face sending chills down a miscreant's spine. Of course, you only received that particular expression if you had done something spectacularly wrong. That didn't happen often, not like it had been in high school, since the students were now “responsible adults”. If anything, people just used that as an excuse to spend most of their free time drinking at parties, especially this group of newly twenty-one year-olds. 

The teacher stood behind her desk and held out her hand.   
“Your essays, please.”   
The room filled with the sound of rustling papers, and Richard looked at the paper in his hand as the ones in the first few rows started slowly filing up to the front of the classroom. Technically his was six and a half pages instead of the required seven, but it was close enough that hopefully Mrs. Darven would let it slide. He was one of her best students, after all. The essay had been on the question of morals in Frankenstein, and had been fairly difficult. Especially because the assignment demanded one to pick a side, Dr. Frankenstein or the monster. Richard had chosen the doctor for the sake of argument, though he didn't really agree with either side. Both were right in some aspects and completely wrong in others.   
He had long since found out that the school system did not appreciate vague answers or reasoning for both sides of an issue. 

The last row finally got up, Richard following behind the quiet kid. He couldn't help but peek as the other was turning his paper in. All he could get a glimpse of was the thickness of the messily stapled papers, nearly a quarter of an inch thick. Definitely more than seven pages long.   
Mrs. Darven sighed, as though this had happened before.   
“How many pages is this?” she said, with what seemed to be a mix of both resignation and anticipation. 

“Seventeen,” came the abrupt answer. 

Richard tried to look at the other student's expression at that, startled. Matthew's face was completely blank. Seventeen pages was over twice the requirement! It had been difficult for him to get even six and a half.  
Their teacher shook her head. “Matthew, I'm sure you know how many of these essays I have to read and grade. It is heartening to know how far beyond the minimum you are willing to go for school, but I just can't afford to use up unnecessary time that could be consumed on someone who actually needs the help. Don't think that it's a bad thing, how intelligent you are, but could you maybe tone it down just a bit? For us lesser beings?” She was almost smiling, mouth twitched up at the corners, which equated to a grin for her. Matthew's expression didn't change a bit.

“Sorry,” he said, neither meaning it nor lying. The older woman looked interested now, something like gross curiosity.

“How did it happen this time?”

Her student paused for a second before answering. “Yesterday I had five pages done already, and a few hours of free time. Sorry about that.” 

Richard stared at the back of his head in disbelief. Twelve pages in just a few hours? He must be lying. And yet, Mrs. Darven didn't look skeptical at all. In fact, she looked as though this was no surprise. If Matthew was really this smart, what was he doing in a class so obviously below his level?

“All right, fine,” the teacher said, slapping the papers down onto her desk. “You won't be punished, since you did nothing wrong. Just please avoid giving me headaches like this in the future.” 

Matthew nodded, silent, before turning around and starting to walk back toward the many desks filled with students quietly conversing among themselves or doing various other things. Richard stepped up to Mrs. Darven's desk, apprehensively holding forward his essay, pitifully thin compared to the one before him. She flipped through it, but when she got to the last page, all she did was raise an eyebrow and proceed to shoo him away. 

Richard fast walked back to his desk, relieved. He looked at his desk, trying to get a discreet glance at Matthew two desks away. What was with him? Since he was so smart, why didn't he ever answer questions? Why didn't anyone know? He would think that anyone like that couldn't help bragging at least a little. Oh, well. It wasn't any of his business anyway. 

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
Richard walked out of the building, his classes over for the day. Of course, just because there were no classes didn't mean his work was over. Usually a college student, well, at least one that actually put any effort into it, had to study at least a couple of hours a week for every class. It was probably worse if you weren't a very good student.

It took him 20 minutes to get to the parking lot this time around, dragging his feet and looking at the sky. There were only a few cars left, most people rushing to one of their other obligations and whatnot. Richard walked toward his simple white car, his steps a bit quicker as the back of his neck prickled. 

Out of the corner of his eye, to the left, he caught a glimpse of motion. He snapped his head around to the direction of the disturbance, seeing nothing but an old dumpster, scrunched between two school buildings.

A hand closed around Richard's mouth from behind, and he tried to turn around, struggling against the veritable wall of flesh blocking the way. A face was suddenly thrust inches away from his, unfamiliar eyes studying. Richard recognized the features of one of the college's football players, a heavy-set sophomore whose name he couldn't quite recall.

“Yeah, Jon, this is the jerk from the pictures.” 

The responding baritone voice came from at least half a foot above Richard's head, and he was not too short a man. 

“Good, then we need to teach him a real lesson.” 

Richard was jarringly spun around, coming face-to-face with Woodlake's resident sports prodigy, Jonathan Swift. In other words, the stereotypical jock, in all aspects but for his jet-black hair and brown eyes. 

Richard was practically frogmarched towards the dark space near the garbage disposal. He stopped struggling abruptly, eyes darting in front of him. If he couldn't win with brawn, maybe he could with brains. His captor mistook his calm as resignation, laughing brutishly as he shoved Richard against the dirty concrete wall, facing him. 

“So, you think you can just parade around and do whatever you want, do you? Thought that no one would see those pictures?” 

Richard was utterly confused by this point.

“What..pictures?” he managed to squeeze out through the restraining hand, before the stronger man slammed his head back against the hard surface, causing visionary bright bursts of light.

“You know what I'm talking about, you little snake. You and my girl! What did you do to her? What did you say?” Strangely, there was a tear rolling down his face as he questioned.

“I..don't..know what you're talking about,” Richard managed to get out, the pressure against his skull increasing. 

Before the other could respond, he brought his knee up squarely into Jon's groin with all the force he could muster, wriggling out of grasp at the opportunity. Richard started to run, but the other guy, the friend, who he had almost forgotten about, grabbed him. This attacker wasn't as strong as the previous one, and Richard promptly punched his in the face. 

The unnamed student staggered back, reeling from the heavy blow to his jaw. Richard turned only to find Jonathan back on his feet, face twisted and twice as enraged as before.

“Why, you little-,” he growled, charging like a bull in the ring. Richard's back hit the wall, and he looked desperately for an exit, but the dumpster blocked any view of the outside, defeating any hopes of anyone seeing what was happening. His eyes darted frantically back in front of him, arms going up in front of his face in an attempt to shield himself from the oncoming impact. 

A few seconds passed where the world was strangely still, nothing moving, before Richard opened his eyes and cautiously lowered his arms.

A dripping, gleaming blade had seemingly grown out of his attacker's thick neck. There was still a look of shock on Jonathan Swift's face, his eyes now glazed. There wasn't as much blood seeping from the intrusion as one would expect, Richard noted. 

Until, that is, the weapon was removed. He suddenly found himself splattered with the sudden gush of lifeblood. The body crashed to the ground at Richard's feet and he stared down at the thing, enraptured by the soft gurgling noises the wound was still emitting.

Registering movement out of the corner of his eye, Richard snapped his head up, having forgotten that someone had to have been holding that knife. His light blue eyes connected with the strange brown one of Matthew Allen.

**Author's Note:**

> By the way, don't use this story as a life role model unless you're a genius.


End file.
